More Than One Kind of Warmth
by KimberlyTheOwl
Summary: John comes home hypothermic and it's Sherlock's fault (sort of), so he does his awkward best to remedy matters. Gratuitous fluff and h/c. Not slash unless you really want it to be. General sweetness all 'round.


**More Than One Kind of Warmth**

**Author's Notes: Just a sweet fluffy story about carelessness, bad luck, guilt, hypothermia, and What One Will Do For A Friend. No slash, just some adorable awkwardness and deep trust. Proof that I really can write a story in which No Tears Are Shed.**

**Disclaimer: Of course I don't own these characters or the show. If I did, we'd have new episodes by now. And hugs…**

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_One more step… come on, one more, and then you can collapse. Figuratively speaking, of course._

He eyed the offending step, and somehow got his shivering body to obey him. Finally, he was in the flat, only a few steps away from the teakettle. Sherlock was stretched out of the sofa, only the back of his head immediately visible. Awake? Asleep? Deep in thought? John couldn't really tell from this angle, and he honestly didn't care right now. Moving quietly, he headed for the kitchen.

"Case is over," came the sudden comment from the sofa.

"What?" John reached the stove, found the teakettle, _checked _in it carefully before adding fresh water – once, there had been a live goldfish inside, that Sherlock had just 'bunged in there for a moment' and then promptly forgotten about. Well, it _had_ been alive, until it had been summarily poached on the stove and its remains poured over the teabags. John gagged slightly at the memory. He'd never actually asked why Sherlock was bringing home live goldfish… certainly not for any purpose as benign as having a pet around the flat. "The case? Our case? The one you sent me all the way to …"

"There was a confession. Lestrade phoned me a couple of hours ago."

John set the full teakettle on the stove and turned on the burner, glaring at his shaking hand. _Not a tremor this time. I'm just still so bloody cold._ "You could have let me know," he complained, betting on the fact that Sherlock hadn't thought to try to reach him. _And if he did, I might not have known, seeing how my phone is now a water-logged, useless, expensive mess, and I am most likely going to have to buy a new one._ "I might have been here a lot s-sooner."

"You would have already spoken with the grandmother by then. Besides, it's good practice for you."

John sent him a withering look, or what he _hoped_ was a withering look, as he put a teabag into his favourite mug. God, it was cold in here, too. Not all that much better than it was outside. He'd warmed up a little bit in the back of Mycroft's car, as the driver had cranked the heater to its maximum, but the flat felt like the heat hadn't been on for days. He glanced at the windows. All intact, none propped open. "Why is it so c-cold in here?" _Damned chattering teeth._

"Problems with the boiler. Very tedious," Sherlock said dismissively, waving an arm. "Mrs. Hudson thinks it might be fixed by tomorrow."

The kettle was starting to steam. John held his aching hands as near to the burner as he dared. _I'll freeze to death by then,_ he thought. _Perhaps I'll just stay in bed until it's fixed._

Finally, the kettle boiled. John poured water into the mug … just as a shuddering wave of cold passed through him, making his hand twitch and sending a generous dollop of boiling water across the counter. And onto his other hand.

"Bloody hell!"

He just barely managed to drop the kettle back squarely onto the stove, rather than onto his foot, and to keep the mug from skittering along the counter. He lurched to the sink and began running cold water on the burn, cursing under his breath.

_Just what I need. More cold…_

"John?"

He ignored the question from the sofa and instead stared at his hand. He could see the skin redden and blister already, though at least the burn area was small. But the additional influx of cold, from the water now pouring over his forearm seemed to have pushed his body over the edge in some way. He was shivering from head to toe, now, hanging on to the counter with his free hand. His tongue felt frozen to the roof of his mouth and his thoughts were moving like cold syrup. He needed to turn off the tap…

A hand came from behind him and turned off the cold water. "I'll bring you some ice for that, John, but don't you think you ought to sit down?"

"Sit down?"

"Yes, sit down." He felt himself guided to a chair. "From the satellite views on the weather website, I didn't think that the storm was headed out that way, but your appearance clearly tells me that you were caught in it on the way back."

John sagged into the chair, still shivering. "Rain. Lots of it. Hail. Sleet." Any sentence more complicated seemed to be beyond his skill level.

"You couldn't find a cab?"

"No." His teeth chattered. "Saw one or t-two but they ignored me. D-dropped my phone into a puddle…"

_And then walked for miles, in the rain, without finding a payphone or a friendly face… getting colder and wetter and more stupid. If Mycroft hadn't been looking for me anyway, and decided to send a car for me, I'd be lying in the gutter unconscious._

The mug of tea, with milk properly added, appeared in front of John and he wrapped his hands around it, carefully avoiding contact between the mug and the burn. "Sugar?" he croaked.

Sherlock's face came into view, now looking faintly concerned. "You never take sugar."

"Calories. N-need energy. Hypothermia." He realised the truth as he said the word. _No wonder I'm feeling so strange. You stupid git, you've let yourself get hypothermic._ He watched as Sherlock added a couple of spoonfuls of sugar to the mug, then lifted to his mouth with shaking hands. It was very hot and revoltingly sweet and exactly what his body needed. He felt his brain clear just slightly, and eagerly gulped more.

Sherlock frowned at John as the latter drained the mug of tea to its last drops. "You're still cold." He rose in a fluid motion. "You're wet, and you're cold. Come with me." John found himself being helped up out of his chair, and herded toward Sherlock's own bedroom.

"Why…" his numb tongue couldn't seem to get any useful words out. Sherlock ignored him and pushed him into the chair before rummaging in his closet. "Somewhere in here… oh, here we are. Just the thing, John." Something deep green landed on the bed. "Merino wool nightshirt."

John tried to protest, briefly. "Looks l-lovely. Warm. I'll just take that upstairs, and…"

"Don't be ridiculous. You can barely stand up and your room is even colder. Mine at least gets some passive heat from the kitchen and the appliances. Here."

And John found himself hauled to his feet, ruthlessly stripped down to his skivvies in a matter-of-fact manner that was reminiscent of the Army nurses that he'd served with, and enveloped in the voluminous wool nightshirt in a matter of moments. He didn't put up much of a fight. As soon as the clammy shirt, jumper and jeans were replaced by soft, warm wool, he began to feel a tiny bit better.

"Thanks," he gasped out hoarsely. "That's a big improvement." He sat down on the edge of the bed, still feeling wobbly. And ravenously hungry. "Is there anything to eat?" he asked hopefully. Food was an important part of treating hypothermia; the body needed calories to generate heat. "Wait… I know I bought a few tins of soup last week, so we should have that, at least." _Just sit here for a moment, then maybe get to the kitchen and heat up some soup. Then sleep, for about a week._

"Here." Sherlock was trying to drape another something around him. It took John a moment to realise it was one of his friend's silk dressing-gowns. He tried his best to cooperate. It, too, was ridiculously long on him, but that wasn't such a bad thing. He wrapped it around himself, huddled into it as best he could. "Come back out to the kitchen."

And so a few minutes later, he was seated at the table, drinking a second serving of hot tomato soup from a mug – his hands were still shaking far too much to manage a spoon – and munching on buttered toast that was only slightly burnt. The empty cavity of hunger in his belly was filling in, and while he was _still _feeling quite cold, he was beginning to get very sleepy. He finished the last drops of soup, and tried to stand.

And nearly fell over. Only by clutching at the edge of the table did he save himself from the ignominious fate of landing face-down on the floor. His vision swam for a bit; when he cleared, he found Sherlock at his elbow once again, supporting him.

"You're clearly in no shape to make it up the stairs, John. You're going to lie down in my room."

John thought about protesting, but truthfully, Sherlock's big bed with its thick down-filled duvet, that he'd sat upon briefly a few minutes ago, looked like a vision of heaven compared to climbing the steep stairs to his own smaller, harder, less well-dressed bed. He nodded and, with a supreme effort, got his feet back under him.

"Just a nap, until I get warmed up, then I think I'll be fine."

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Sherlock pulled the duvet up over his friend. "There. I'll come back and check on you in a little while."

No answer from John, who burrowed even more deeply into the bed, curled up into a ball. He looked as if he were still shivering. Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt as he walked out into the sitting room. _I should have called him, let him know that the case had been solved. He might have been able to get back before he got so wet and cold._

He settled onto the sofa with his book and tried to read. But to his annoyance, he was distracted by a certain amount of … was it truly worry? Yes, he was worried about his friend. The realisation came as a surprise.

_How long before he feels better? Is it just the cold and exposure, or is he becoming ill? I should have made him check his temperature._

Finally, after about fifteen minutes, he went back to the bedroom and silently opened the door. He could see John still curled up into a tight ball under the covers. Even from the doorway he was able to tell that the lump in the bed was still shivering. He walked in and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"John?" He touched the trembling shoulder lightly. "Do you think you are getting any warmer?"

There was a pause. "Maybe. Not… not v-very quickly though." More shivers. "Do you think we have an electric heating pad anywhere? Or even a hot-water b-bottle?"

Sherlock jumped up. "No, I haven't any such thing… but I am sure that Mrs. Hudson does. I'll just pop down and ask her."

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"Oh, I suppose I've got one somewhere, dear… but I'm sure I don't know where." Mrs. Hudson stood in her kitchen, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I can send some extra blankets with you. That might help. But really… you know what you ought to do. It's much easier."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What ought I to do?"

She looks puzzled. "You don't know? Dearie, it's always in those survival documentaries, and movies about explorers and all that sort of thing. The very best way to warm up a cold person is to get in bed with them."

He folded his arms. "Really, Mrs. Hudson… I hardly think that John would appreciate finding me in his bed trying to 'warm him up'."

"Dear, if he's that cold, he won't care who or what is in bed with him. He's miserable. And who else would you suggest? Me? With my terrible circulation?" She put a hand on his arm. "You're young and healthy and I can just feel the warmth coming off of you. Even though you don't eat enough and you're far too thin, young man, you'll be better than any hot-water bottle." She gave him a little push. "Go back up there and take care of him. He'd do the same thing for you."

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And so Sherlock found himself standing uncertainly in his own bedroom, considering his next move. He wasn't _entirely_ unfamiliar with the concept of warming a hypothermic person by getting into a bed or sleeping bag with them. He just had never thought that he would find himself in a situation where he would need to do such a thing. After all, he lived in the city surrounded by modern comforts, and until John came along, spent much of his time alone.

_Right. I managed to get him undressed and into bed in the first place. I can do this._

He changed quickly into his most comfortable pyjamas. He remembered reading that direct skin-to-skin contact would be the most effective, but if Mrs. Hudson had been able to feel body heat coming off of him through his suit jacket, surely there was no need for such extreme measures. Then he surveyed the bed, and his friend.

John was still curled up tightly, on the half of the bed nearest Sherlock, facing the edge. He'd clearly been too cold to move from the spot he'd started in. Sherlock decided that the best thing to do would be to go around to the other side and slide up behind him; his longer limbs and torso should do an excellent job of providing a sort of living, heated blanket.

As Sherlock peeled back the duvet and sheet and climbed in, John didn't even stir. But as he slid closer, he saw his friend's head move.

"Sherlock?" came the quiet, blurred question.

"Yes, John, it's me." He touched his friend on the shoulder, trying to avoid startling him. "Mrs. Hudson didn't have anything like a hot-water bottle handy. She advised me to get into the bed with you instead."

There was a slight snort from the John-lump. "Normally I'd t-tell you just what t-to do with advice like that." He shivered again, a shudder that actually made the bed wiggle. "But I'm so d-damn cold. I think she's right."

Taking that answer for assent, Sherlock moved closer still. He slid one arm underneath John's neck and wrapped the other around his friend under the duvet, and adjusted his position until he felt he had as much of his warmer body touching John's as possible. Now he could feel every shiver and shudder and every chatter of John's teeth.

Slowly, over the next half-hour or so, he felt the shivering grow less. Gradually, he felt heat steal back into John's hands and feet, which had been icy and clammy when he'd first climbed into the bed. He placed his own hands on top of John's, rubbing and chafing them gently, and tucked John's feet between his own ankles to try to warm them more quickly.

And then, lulled by the warmth of the bed and deep breaths and heartbeat of his friend… he fell asleep.

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John could almost pinpoint the moment when he started to gain ground against the hypothermia. It was a bit like have a terrible headache and feeling the pain medication start to work all of a sudden, or like the dawning realisation of being out of danger back when he'd been in frightening situations in the war. At any rate, there was a perceptible feeling of having won, of a relief that the tide had turned.

He'd been too cold and dull and miserable to be embarrassed about Sherlock's (or really, Mrs. Hudson's) solution to his problem, although he'd been a little startled. Surely this was the kind of situation guaranteed to make someone like Sherlock uncomfortable. Yet as his brain gradually started to think at a normal speed again, thanks to the delicious warmth coming into him from his friend's body, he thought that it made a certain amount of sense. Sherlock was logical, if nothing else, and hadn't shown himself to be particularly averse to getting into John's personal space when there was a good reason to do so.

So, John's shivering lessened and finally ceased altogether. His hands and feet stopped feeling as if they belonged to a dead man. At last, he was finally able to extend his legs, to straighten out and uncurl from the cramped position that he had been in when he was so cold.

He expected Sherlock to say something about being satisfied with the results of his treatment, and to shift away from him. Or even to get out of the bed and go back to whatever obscure project he'd been working on when John had stumbled home. But there was no motion from the other body in the bed, save the slow steady breaths of a deeply sleeping person.

John smiled to himself, and, as carefully as he could, rolled over onto his back to look at Sherlock. In sleep, the frenetic tautness of Sherlock's face was gone, smoothed out into relaxed, softer lines. Closed lids hid the familiar pale eyes with their always-intense gaze. His mouth was open slightly, and his breath was gently whuffling John's face. Even asleep, his arms stayed firmly locked in place around John, infusing him with more than one kind of warmth.

_I could wake him up and tell him I'm fine now. But he needs sleep too; he never seems to sleep well or often enough. And it's his bed, after all. And he looks more content, and more deeply asleep, than I've seen him in a long time._

He eased himself back onto his side, burrowed even more deeply into the bed and into the unexpectedly persistent arms that held him, and sighed deeply as he drifted off into a well-earned sleep.


End file.
